


We'll Go Back to Who We Were

by cissues



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Can't Do Housework, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, I can't stop making my friend Richie Tozier cry and I'm so sorry!, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Richie just wants to be Small
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissues/pseuds/cissues
Summary: Richielooksat him.It’s not the way that Eddie sometimeslooksat him, secretly, when he knows he won’t be caught. It’s not full of that yearning and gay anguish. Richie looks at him with regular anguish, it’sfearandconcernand things that Eddie doesn’t fully understand.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 31
Kudos: 483





	We'll Go Back to Who We Were

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really genuinely sorry that I can't stop writing Richie Tozier crying??? I don't want to hurt him! But I keep doing it!
> 
> Also this includes the totally canonical fact that Eddie has no fucking clue how to do housework :\ which is my favorite canonical fact about Eddie Kaspbrak.
> 
> Come talk to me and be my friend on twitter @peachieweech!!! I talk about reddie a lot but mostly Eddie Kaspbrak and the miniseries. 
> 
> Title is from "If You Love Me Come Clean" by Flatsound and it is a truly heartwrenching reddie song I highly recommend checking it out!
> 
> Love u!

There’s this way that Richie gets sometimes.

It’s been months since Eddie moved into the Tozier household. He’s done his best to fit in, make his presence both known and unobtrusive. Secretly he’s glad that Richie never cancelled his cleaning service because if there was a real secret he’s been keeping, it’s that he never actually learned how to do laundry and wet food on old plates makes him gag so any cleaning duties that Richie might have expected from him are for not. He still finds himself struggling over laundry folding techniques he tries to teach himself from YouTube, so the intimidating old cleaning lady that comes to their shared apartment once a week is both a blessing and a curse.

He still doesn’t feel like he fits in here. It’s been months, but he and Richie have never talked about the _ long term _. He assumes that Richie feels bad for him what with his divorce proceedings and being let go from his job for missing multiple weeks of work without notice. He tries to be a subtle and helpful house guest, but there’s a weight on him in the shape of his mother who never taught him how to actually take care of himself, much less other people.

They still spend nearly every night together, laying on Richie’s uncomfortably ergonomic couch watching his far-too-big television and ribbing each other about the things that feel easy. Sometimes they fall asleep against one another, someone waking up before the other and breaking this tension that they’ve been stepping on eggshells around for weeks.

Because Eddie _ really _ likes living with Richie.

He never thought he would say it. He expected Richie to be messy and obnoxious and in his face at all times, but he finds _ himself _, more often than not, being the source of household arguments.

“_ Eddie, for the love of God just fucking rinse your dishes. _ ” or “ _ Eddie, can’t you throw a load of laundry into the washer at _ least _ ? _ ” or “ _ Eddie, please clean up after yourself, you goddamn slob _.”

Richie is the one that throws away their take out. He’s the one that fries eggs in the morning and starts the pot of coffee. Eddie never learned about these things and he’s figuring out where he fits into this domestic dynamic.

Well, he _ tries _ not to think of it as domestic.

It’s just two roommates, platonically living together while one does all of the dishes, cleaning, laundry, and the other meekly tags along, picking up the pieces when he can.

Except Richie has never mentioned that it wears on him. When he comes home from a particularly stressful meeting with his manager, wherever Eddie is is the first place he goes. He collapses onto the couch, or Eddie’s bed, or the kitchen island and Eddie places a shaking hand on his shoulder or back or head and pretends that this is something that platonic friends do. He loves his bro in a perfectly platonic, totally friendly way that should absolutely be taken at face value. Nothing to read into, nothing to look too closely at.

Sometimes, though… sometimes Richie _ looks _ at _ him _.

It’s hard enough as a freshly divorced man who is peaking cautiously outside of the closet. Richie had reacted perfectly when he found out. Eddie said “_ I’m probably gay? _ ” and Richie said “ _ Thank you for telling me. I’m proud of you _ ” which only made it worse, really. Because Richie is the _ reason _ Eddie was gay, he’s almost certain of. Or, at least, the reason he realized it. Richie is the first thing he thinks of when he bothers to delve into what he lovingly calls his “Forbidden Lines of Thinking”. Images of Richie, young and grown, stretching and smiling and reaching and touching, things that had been locked away for so long and things that had only just begun to make his skin itch once again.

But Richie _ looks _ at him.

It’s not the way that Eddie sometimes _ looks _ at him, secretly, when he knows he won’t be caught. It’s not full of that yearning and gay anguish. Richie looks at him with regular anguish, it’s _ fear _ and _ concern _ and things that Eddie doesn’t fully understand.

One night Eddie was attempting to wipe down the kitchen after a particularly enthusiastic pancake event and when he looked up, Richie was _ staring _ at him in a way that made him feel both seen and invisible all at once. As if Richie was looking through him at a different Eddie. His eyes glassy and his expression unreadable and when he snipped at Richie to “ _ take a picture, it’ll last longer _”, Richie cleared his throat and averted his gaze but never said anything. 

It was unnerving.

Today is not unlike one of those days.

Richie had spent an obnoxious amount of time with his agent discussing tour dates and appearances on talk shows, and he seems so drained when he comes home that Eddie is actually quiet for once. He smiles when Richie walks through the door and he continues his task of putting away dishes, only to be met by that _ look _ that Richie gives him. Eddie has some old jazz singer playing from a record he’d dug up from Richie’s extensive collection and he’s wearing his pajamas from the night before - a habit he’s hoping to break once he’s settled enough to find a job.

Richie is _ looking _ and Eddie, for once, lets him.

He’s glassy-eyed and after a long moment of eyes met, he looks away. There’s something brave inside of Eddie that prods him to finally ask, “what’s wrong?”

Richie’s fists ball at his side and he shakes his head quickly and shortly, pressing his knuckles against his eyes.

“Richie, you know how annoying it is when you don’t fucking talk to me.”

This pulls a small, watery laugh from Richie’s chest, deep in his lungs in a place that Eddie was never sure he would have been able to reach.

“You really-- you can’t help with this,” Richie says and he sounds bitter and uncomfortable and everything Richie _ shouldn’t _ be and it only makes Eddie more pissed.

“Well, your morale fucking sucks and it’s ruining the atmosphere of this dingy goddamn house so you better fucking tell me before I’m completely over it and leave on principle.”

This is, of course, an empty threat because they both know that Eddie has next to nothing as far as back-up plans and his alimony has all but drained his bank account to the point of absolution. Still, Richie hiccups and presses his lips together as if the threat of Eddie ceasing his endless mooching was a death sentence.

“Okay, fine you prissy bitch,” he says after a moment and gestures vaguely towards the livingroom. “I’ll tell you, but you should probably sit down.”

Eddie scoffs as if this is an imposition, but goes to sit down anyway. “What, are you gonna tell me I’m adopted?” He asks quietly, still trying to send out lines to bait Richie, even when he knows now that they will only be met with soft and broken glares that hit him way too deep.

He perches himself safely against the arm rest, tucking his legs under him in a way that he’s sure has to do with his automatic defense system, something that’s supposed to send signals to keep away.

Richie sits an entire three inches next to him, their legs bumping far too comfortably for Eddie’s liking. Richie leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, pushing his glasses onto his forehead. He’s breathing intentionally. Eddie can recognize the counted and measured breaths in and out that his therapist would sometimes try to make him do, no matter how many times the focus on his breathing threw him into a panic attack.

It looks like it’s helping Richie, though, and after a moment he breathes in again very deeply and exhales as he sits up. His eyes are still wet but he looks more resolute than before.

“Uh, so remember the - um… the night we killed It?”

“Obviously, yes,” Eddie replies with only a hint of snark. How could he forget? The angry pink scar on his ribs and significantly reduced liver mass was a constant reminder of what they had done and what it had almost costed.

“Right, well… you remember when I got caught in the Deadlights?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat to ease the discomfort of being reminded.

“Of fucking course I do, Rich, it was the scariest shit I’d ever seen.” And the words are out before he has time to think, and he tries not to let it show how embarrassed he is at the implication. It was the most terrifying moment he can clearly remember, watching Richie float limp and vulnerable in front of It’s gaping maw. Not when that disgusting spider claw tore into his side, not when Stan’s disembodied head tried to eat them alive, not when Bowers stabbed him in the cheek. The most helpless and terrified he’d ever felt in his life was watching Richie under Its control and not knowing how to stop it. He still thanks whatever powers that be every day for the split-second decision to javelin the fence post at that fucking clown.

Richie, it seems, doesn’t notice the slip and just nods, swallowing audibly.

“Well, I saw something… in the Deadlights,” Richie says it as if he wants to get it out of his mouth as quickly as possible, as if the confession is burning his tongue, “I saw you.”

Whatever stupid shit that was about to come out of Eddie’s mouth, whatever deflection he was trying to throw at Richie fizzles out and his teeth click as he shuts his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Richie, expression blank.

“I, uh, I saw you die, Eds. It felt so fucking _ real _ . You got… _ shit _ ,” Richie wipes at his eyes with fervor, glass dangling in his hand. “It fucking _ stabbed you _ . Through the back. I felt the blood on my face. _ Your _ blood. It felt like… _ like days _ . I watch you get thrown across that fucking cave and I saw you dying and there was so much fucking _ blood _ . Then we defeated the clown and we just fucking _ left you there _ . We didn’t even have time t-to _ check _ , to make sure you weren’t still breathing. Then you woke me up and you were alive and I couldn’t let that happen again, so I pulled you out of the way but you still got hurt, Eds, you still could have _ died _. I still saw you--”

Richie breaks into sobs, his body folding in on itself and shoulders shaking violently. His feet lift off of the ground as if the pain of it clenches his entire body inward with a strength too powerful for him to fight. Eddie is frozen for a few long moments, eyes wide and Richie’s bodily shaking contagious, reflecting in his own tremors. Finally, when it feels like his limbs and joints have thawed, his hands act independently, reaching forward and catching Richie’s shoulders.

The effect is immediate, Richie collapses into Eddie’s chest, sobs wracking his body and fists clenched into Eddie’s sleep shirt. The position isn’t comfortable, but Eddie doesn’t dare to move and Richie seems incapable of it. Eddie wraps his arms around Richie and rests his chin on top of Richie’s head, some instinct in him urging him to gently stroke Richie’s hair, eyes fluttering shut. He works to regulate his own breathing, make it sound intentional, so Richie has something to focus on and, after a few moments, Richie’s breath begins to even out as well.

Eventually, Eddie can hear an audible swallow and a long, shuddering sigh.

“Thanks.” Richie says, voice a toad’s croak of a thing. Eddie smiles a little in spite of himself and a small, cruel voice reminds him that this was an act of selfishness more than anything. An excuse to hold Richie close to him and pretend, fleetingly, that they had something else, something different. Something Eddie wants but knows he cannot have.

“Anytime, Rich,” Eddie says and he means it, he _ means it _.

“Pretty fucked up that you had to comfort me about your own fucking death,” Richie is trying to deflect now. Eddie lets him, but he sighs long through his nose and, in a moment of leftover weakness, presses his lips against the top of Richie’s head and murmurs, “Thanks for telling me” into his hair.

Richie freezes suddenly, as if he’s afraid to move, and Eddie’s heart thumps painfully against his chest so he can _ feel _ it and he’s sure Richie can _ feel _ it, too. They are both paused, still and silent against one another. Hesitantly, as if he’s afraid he’ll spook Eddie, Richie moves against his chest, turning around and tucking his head under Eddie’s chin and slowly, _ achingly _ slowly, winds his arms around Eddie’s middle. Eddie holds his breath until Richie is settled again, curled in on himself that makes him feel so small, smaller than Eddie, and then Eddie breathes and holds Richie close to his chest, closer to his heart.

They sit like that for a long time, Eddie running his fingers tenderly through Richie’s hair, brushing it back and probably ruining whatever style Richie might have possibly been trying for, if any, but Richie’s breath steadies and he begins to hum when Eddie’s fingertips dig into his scalp.

Richie sighs quietly, his face turning into Eddie’s shirt that he’s sure smells like body odor and probably a little like Richie.

“If you’re only doing this because you feel sorry for me, can you tell me now?” Richie’s voice is as small as he’s trying to make his body. It’s barely audible and Eddie only presses a noise through pursed lips, frowning. He looks down at the top of Richie’s head and thinks for a long, long moment about what those words could mean.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he says, finally, “I’m worried about you, like I worry about you every fucking day. But your sad-sack antics are just another part of you that I want--” He inhales deeply through his nose, “that I want to be there for.”

This isn’t, apparently, what Richie wanted to hear because he starts to pull away. Eddie hugs him back to his chest and prays to every God and Saint he can name that he’s making the right move here.

“I want to _ be there _ , Rich. I want to be _ here _ , y’know, _ with _ you.” He tries to put the emphasis where it’s important, pressing the meaning of the words against Richie and hoping against all hope that he lets them in.

Again, Richie settles. He’s still not looking at Eddie.

“I want you,” Richie says and there’s a moment where he pauses and it sounds like that’s the end of it, but Eddie hears the rest of the sentence before it’s spoken so, so cautiously, “I want you to be here. _ With _ me.”

Eddie laughs, then, and it startles Riche into looking up at him, face stricken. Eddie flaps a hand at him, shaking his head.

“_ No _ , no sorry, don’t make that face! It’s just… we’re so fucking _ stupid _ , dude! Oh my God! The second I walked through your front door the only thing I could think was _ holy fuck, I want to stay here forever. I want to be with him _.”

And that was more explicit than he’d meant. They had still been dancing, but Eddie just stepped on toes and he holds his breath, evaluating the calculating look that Richie is aiming at him. He takes a moment to admire Richie at this angle, below him and vulnerable in a way he didn’t usually allow himself to be.

“Well, thank _ fuck _, because I thought I was being a fucking weirdo for keeping you here--”

“You haven’t _ kept _ me here, I can’t even fucking fold laundry--”

“Oh my God can you please shut the fuck up about the laundry! I don’t care about the fucking-”

“I’m a mooch, Rich! I’m unemployed and living rent free and I can’t even do the dishes-”

“Do you think I give a fuck about any of that shit, Spaghetti-”

  
“Don’t fucking call me that-”

And then Richie is kissing him.

The angle is odd, pressed up and against in a way that can’t be comfortable for Richie’s neck, but he had a hand hooked behind Eddie’s neck as leverage, and Eddie is leaning down and _ in _ and they meet in this beautiful sort of way that two puzzle pieces do when you’ve been searching for their pair for hours. The finality and satisfaction of slotting the two together after looking for so long for a match. It feels like Eddie is finally whole, holding Richie Tozier against his chest and being kissed in the way he had been too much of a coward to do himself.

When they part, Richie looks like his whole world has unfolded in front of him and he’s grinning like a madman. “You are-” but he stops himself, mouth moving around half-formed words that aren’t enough to encapsulate the emotion he’s feeling.

“No wonder they don’t let you write your own material,” Eddie murmurs against Richie’s mouth and Richie barks a laugh that sounds so genuine and full of joy that Eddie decides that it’s all he wants to do, make him laugh like that any chance he can.

“I love you,” Richie says, suddenly, as if it’s what was supposed to follow that comment, like it’s a logical response to Eddie making fun of him, and maybe it is.

“I love you,” Eddie says, and he means it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life and Richie looks ecstatic, glowing, in the face of the sun. He _ giggles _ , actually _ giggles _ like a school girl and then he looks a little embarrassed, but he kisses Eddie to distract him from commenting on it and it works. It works _ well _.

After another beautiful eon, they separate, but Eddie presses his forehead against Richie’s immediately, not ever wanting to be apart for too long now. Now that they know and now that they can just _ be this _.

“You want me to stay even though I can’t do dishes?” He asks in a breath and he grins, again, at Richie’s exasperated laugh.

“I’ll teach you, Eds. Don’t worry, we’ll have you at peak housewife status in no time.”

Eddie scoffs but the idea of it makes him want to kiss Richie again, and so he does. He does it again and again, all the way to Richie’s bed, and then they continue until they fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, Richie’s head still tucked carefully under Eddie’s chin and Eddie resolves to give him shit about it tomorrow. Tonight, though… tonight they sleep and they bask in this thing neither thought they’d ever get to have.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments and kudos!! It gives me the confidence to keep writing reddie fic! So leave a comment if you liked it! Thank u love u <3


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